I thought he just disappeared into the garage to avoid me. That’s the story I kept replaying in my head. Then one night I went looking for him

I thought he just disappeared into the garage to avoid me. That’s the story I kept replaying in my head.

Then one night I went looking for him — and found him on the floor, tools scattered, sweat dripping, fixing the washing machine that had been flooding. He’d been at it for hours, long after I’d gone to bed. And in the morning? The leak was gone. The laundry was tumbling. I almost brushed past it, like the machine had just fixed itself. That’s the version of me that stays blind, that convinces myself I’m the only one doing the work, while he’s breaking himself down quietly. But this time I noticed. The wet rags on the floor. His shirt still damp. The busted part tossed in the trash. My throat went tight when I finally said, ‘Hey… thank you for staying up all night fixing this. For handling it when I didn’t even know. I see it.’ He just wiped his hands, shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal — but I could feel something shift between us. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from missing the love that shows up in the hardest work.